CHAPTER III

_A House Divided_

When Royal returned the next morning, he maintained a stolid indifference, which Marianne felt covered a real regret at his impetuous decision. He would not talk, and gave her no further information than that he had told his mother the step he had taken and had made his farewells.

"Does father know?" Marianne asked.

Royal was silent for a moment, then he answered, "No."

"Oh, what will he say?" Marianne exclaimed.

Royal did not reply, but ground an inoffensive dandelion into the earth at his feet. The two were standing in the orchard, whither Royal had followed his sister. She watched the gloom gather upon his face more and more deeply, and said, with a sisterly attempt at cheerfulness: "Oh, well, it may all blow over very soon, and at all events you don't have to serve more than this first term of enlistment; and since you are only in the militia, you won't have to be at camp all the time like the regulars, and can stay here at grandmamma's, and that will be almost like being at home."

Royal smiled a little. "But you will be on the other side of the river," he said, "and it will soon be not so easy to come back and forth. As it is, we could scarcely do it but that we are known at the ferry. When I am a soldier on this side, and you are the daughter of a soldier on that--"

Marianne put her hands over her ears. "I won't hear it. You don't mean this is a real good-by, Royal? Why, I thought I'd see you a dozen times,--that you could pop in when you pleased."

"That will not be possible."

"And this is truly adieu?" She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him over and over. Then suddenly flung herself from him and down on the grass, where she lay sobbing.

Royal watched her for a few minutes before he went over and shook her shoulder gently. "See here, Marianne," he said, "I had one scene yesterday with mother. She vows she will not face my father with the news of my enlistment, and--and I depended upon you to do it. Sit up, there's a good girl, and listen to me."

Marianne obeyed, wiping her wet eyes and turning her tear-stained face toward her brother.

"I confess I may have been in too great haste about this matter," he continued. "I was at Queenston one day when the subject was put before us in this way: the Americans desire the annexation of Canada; if we would not be merged into that hodgepodge of nationalities, we must stand up for ourselves and fight, that Canada may keep her individuality."

The tears were gone from Marianne's eyes, and now they flashed with indignation. "Her individuality, indeed! Are you forsooth an Englishman, Royal Reyburn? Is Canada French? Hasn't she given her allegiance to Great Britain? And if she is not fighting under the French flag, why are not the American Stars and Stripes good enough for you? You are an American born, and it is all nonsense, this talk of Canada's rights. If you were talking of her rights as a French province, that would be another thing; but when you begin about English rights for her, I don't see why it wouldn't be just as good for her individuality, as you call it, if she were an American possession. She isn't French, either way you fix it. One would suppose that England had suddenly become a part of France to hear you talk."

"At all events, she doesn't want to belong to the United States," persisted Royal.

"I don't see what business it is of yours if she doesn't," said Marianne, sharply. "Besides, that is not what the war is about. Father told me the whole trouble. It is because the English will not allow us free trade, and they impress American-born sailors whenever they can, just to be overbearing bullies. We are not going to stand having our liberties abused in that impudent way, and we are not going to allow our own real American sailors to be stolen from us by Johnny Bull. Canada has nothing to do with the question. Besides, you are not Canadian; you are an American."

"I am Canadian now," said Royal, soberly.

Marianne jumped to her feet. "Thank Heaven, I am not. Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes! Down with the British! Death to the redcoats! Hurrah for America! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" She caught off her apron and waved it around her head excitedly. "There!" she cried, stamping her foot, "there! I am an American, and I hope you remember it, and your father is an American; so was your grandfather, and your great-grandfather, and your great-great-grandfather. Now, what have you to say?"

"Take care!" Royal warned. "You are on British soil, and war is declared."

"Maybe you would like to arrest me," Marianne taunted, dancing before him mockingly. "Maybe you'd like to have your sister and your father and your whole family in some vile prison-ship or some loathsome prison? Such a noble ambition!"

"Marianne!" Her brother spoke impatiently. "This is perfectly childish. I have done what I believe to be right, and I am not going to be taunted out of my duty by a silly girl. If you will not make your adieux to me in a sisterly fashion, then we will part without them." He turned on his heel and walked off.

Marianne ran after him and caught him by the arm. "Royal, Royal, don't go away like that. I will do my best to spare my father. I will tell him you thought you were doing right. Don't go without kissing me good-by; please don't."

He stopped, a smile lighting up his dark face. "That sounds more like my little sister." He lifted her up bodily and kissed her two or three times. "Good-by, my little girl. I hope to see you soon again. You must try to be son and daughter to our father and mother. Perhaps my father has not meant to be hard on me, but he has treated me as if I were an infant to be told not to go beyond the garden gate, and I could not stand it. That's the true reason, Marianne, only don't tell any one. Politics have little to do with it."

"No, I will not tell. But he doesn't mean to be hard on you, Roy, I know he doesn't. He forgets that you are a child no longer. He treats me as if I were a babe in arms, and I rather like it, so why should not you? My grandmother says you are like father in disposition, that he will not be controlled by another's will, and neither will you; I suppose that is the way of it. Adieu, Royal. I will be good, and I will stay at home and try to be a comfort to father and mother."

He lifted her up once more to kiss her, and they parted.

Marianne returned to the house. Victorine was not singing at the loom. She was very soberly engaged in scouring a pewter dish. Her beautiful hair fell down each side her face so that Marianne could not see her eyes, in which she would have discovered traces of tears. "Where is Victor?" asked the younger girl, abruptly.

"He is in the garden," Victorine answered in a quiet voice.

"I want him to take me home. I want to go now, right off."

"Why need you do that?" her grandmother asked from the buttery.

"I must. Royal has gone, and they are all alone there; they will need me. I promised Royal that I would go."

"She is right," commented Madame Desvouges. "We must do without her for a while, Victorine. This troublesome war is going to put a stop to the freedom of going back and forth as one wishes; and besides, they say the country about is like to be full of soldiers, and it will be best that maids remain at home. We will keep our eyes on Royal, my child, and no doubt there will be found a way to keep up communication. If your father goes to the war, you and your mother will, of course, come here, and we will all be together."

Marianne did not reply, for her mind was made up on that score. So she kissed her grandmother and Victorine good-by with more than usual warmth, and set out with Victor toward her home.

"You will only ferry me over, Victor," she said to him, "and the rest of the way it will be all right." At the opposite shore she held out her hand. "Good-by, Victor."

He took the offered hand in both his. "And why adieu so seriously, Marianne? I shall see you again soon; to-morrow, it may be."

"You may not," she returned.

"Then I will go all the way with you."

"No, you had better go back. I don't want you. The way is easy enough, and I shall have work to do when I get there."

"I can help you with it."

She shook her head. "Not with the kind that I have on hand. Go back, please." She pushed him gently by the shoulders, and he obediently stepped into the boat and picked up his oars.

"Very well, Marianne. Good-by for to-day, if you say so, but you do not prevent me from seeing you soon again."

She watched the little boat push off, and then she took her way up the path toward the road which led to her home. It was still early in the day, but the warmth of a summer day brooded over the woods and fields. Usually Marianne noted every wayside blossom, the songs of the birds in the trees, and the drift of white clouds floating across the sky; but to-day she was intent upon reaching home, and gave but scant heed to the pleasures of the way. She walked rapidly, and her hair clung in little damp rings around her face when she appeared before her mother.

"You are returned," said Mrs. Reyburn. "I am glad, Marianne, that you did not tarry. They are all well? Yes?"

"Quite well, and sent their love and a hundred messages, as usual." Marianne sat down and fanned herself vigorously with her hat. "I saw Royal," she announced abruptly.

Her mother's lips quivered. "His father does not know," she said tremulously.

"No, I know he does not. Where is father?"

"In the shop. There was some tool to be mended, and he took it there. I heard him hammering upon it a moment ago."

Marianne did not waste words. She picked up her hat again and went toward the door; then something in her mother's face made her turn back. "Do not worry, mother mine," she said. "I am going to tell father, and I think I can make him understand that he is not to blame Royal too much." She took her mother's head between her hands and kissed the shining bands of dark hair before she started again upon her errand.

Walter Reyburn was hammering away at a bit of iron, giving powerful blows, which brought out the muscles on his bare arm. Marianne stood watching him. What a great, strong man he was; what mighty sinews and strong, brawny hands! It was funny, she told herself, that any one as little as she should have such a big father, and what was funnier still, she was not in the least afraid of him. She stood poised upon the sill of the rude work-shop until her father caught sight of her.

"Well," he exclaimed, "you are back I see, bright and early, too."

"Yes, I would have come yesterday, but--" She paused.

"But what?" Her father examined carefully the bit of iron he had been pounding.

"Only they would not let me. Grandmamma said I shouldn't, and I had to mind her."

"Yes, of course. I'm glad you've come, though. Mother needs you. She doesn't seem quite as bright as usual; something on her mind. I fancy she suspects I am going off as soon as I get the call."

Marianne was silent for a minute, then she said bravely, "That isn't all."

"It isn't? She isn't ill, is she?"

"No. It's--it's about Royal."

"What about Royal?" Her father turned his back to her and picked up his hammer again, weighing it in his hand aimlessly. There was dead silence for a moment.

"He's joined the army," said Marianne, in a low voice, after she had summoned sufficient courage to make the statement, "the army over there at--at Queenston."

The hammer dropped with a thud, and the strong man grasped the rough work-bench for support. Marianne ran up to him and leaned her face against his sleeve. "Father, dear," she whispered, "don't be hard on him. He is a man full grown. You were married and were his father at his age, and--and--I think if you'd only let him feel that he is not a child. You see he wanted to let you understand that he is old enough to do what he had made up his mind to. I don't believe he would have gone if you hadn't laid down the law and said he shouldn't do anything except what you told him he could. Grandmamma says he has a strong will just like yours."

"Mine never led me to be a traitor to my country," replied her father, in a stifled tone.

It was a critical moment, and Marianne felt the need of the right word which would turn her father's bitterness of spirit into something gentler. She took one of his big strong hands in hers and stroked it gently. "Father," she went on, "do you remember that when your father joined the American army that his grandfather called him a traitor, and you have often said that your great-grandfather thought he was right in being a Tory at the beginning of the war, though he changed his opinions later. You know Royal feels as if he belonged to Canada as much as to the States, and if he thinks he is right to fight for his mother's country instead of his father's, do you think that makes him altogether bad?" Marianne's arm had stolen around her father's neck, and she looked at him with anxious eyes.

[Illustration: "_She took one of his big strong hands in hers and stroked it gently._"]

"You don't understand how a man feels about these things," her father replied, with a little more heartiness of tone. "I don't think Royal altogether bad, but isn't it a terrible thing for father and son to be arrayed against each other?"

"It is dreadful, dreadful, but it was so in the last war, and perhaps it will never come to that really. You may neither of you have a chance to fight at all; and if you do, even then you would forgive Royal and let him come again, wouldn't you?"

Her father was silent for a little. "We will talk of that when the time comes," he said at last. "There may be no home to come to."

"Oh!" Such a possibility had never entered Marianne's head. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. While I never for a moment doubt the righteousness of our cause nor the result of our arms, there are chances to be taken, and war on this border land means perhaps destruction. That brings us to something else I want to say. I had hoped when I joined our troops, that Royal would at least remain at home and look after you and your mother, even if he did not give active assistance to our side. Since this is not to be expected now, I see nothing for you to do but to go to your grandmother's."

"Mother may go, but I am not going," replied Marianne, decidedly.

"You will go where your mother does."

"I will stay where my father stays. I am not going to grandmamma's, any such thing, and I don't believe mother will either. We are going to stay right here where you are. Do you suppose I want to be over there in that nest of Britishers? If I were a man, I'd shoulder a gun with you, and we'd march off together. As it is, I mean to stay in the United States of America. There!"

Her father looked at her half amused. She had left his side and was standing before him. He took her two hands and gave them a hearty shake. "Well, little girl, I've one loyal child, anyhow, I'm happy to see. Stay you shall, while there is any chance of safety. It may be that you are right and that there is more bluster than danger."

Yet a few days later Marianne, looking toward the foot of the cliffs in the rear of Lewiston, saw the fields white with the tents of Van Rensselaer's encampment, and then war seemed very near home.

Her father was not yet in active service, and brought home the news of a cessation of hostilities. Then came the information that Hull had surrendered, not only Detroit but the whole of Michigan, to the enemy, and the troops under Van Rensselaer chafed under their enforced inaction when they saw, marched in ostentatious parade on the other side of the river, the unhappy prisoners taken at Detroit.

Then came the battle of Queenston, with its disheartening ending, when a stolid body of militia saw their companions, who had started out so bravely and who, reinforced, could easily have won the day,--these they saw overpowered and made prisoners; that, too, after their fierce fight, when they had attained to their position by making the perilous climb up the heights of Queenston. A brave fight it was for those of the American troops who were in it, and all glory is theirs.

It was with a great fear in her heart that Marianne heard the news. She had watched the battle from the American shore, had beheld the dead and wounded brought back in boats, had witnessed the stubborn refusal of the militia to advance to the relief of those who were so dangerously in want of reënforcements; and at last, when all was over, the great question that arose to her lips was: Where is my father? Was he among those cowards on the bank? If so, he was safe--yet a coward. Was he among those who had valiantly scaled the heights, but to be captured at last after their noble defence? If so, he was a prisoner. Together mother and daughter watched and waited all that day and the next.

About dusk of the second evening came the sound of footsteps along the path leading to the kitchen door. Marianne jumped to her feet. "It is father!" she cried.

"No, no, it is but a neighbor," her mother declared, afraid to encourage hope.

"But it must be father," persisted Marianne, flinging open wide the door. But there was disappointment in her tones as she exclaimed, "Oh, it is only you!"

Her mother came rapidly forward, asking, "Who is it, Marianne?"

"Only Victor."

"Victor? And how comes he here?"

"I have come to take you home with me," he answered, entering the room.

"I shall not go," Marianne objected decidedly.

"You'd better," returned Victor.

"I shall wait here for my father. Oh, Victor, have you heard anything of him? We do not know whether he was with those who crossed; and we have heard that there has been a fearful battle, and that the Indians who came rushing in at the end of it under that half-breed, Captain Norton, were the cause of our losing the day. The militia, they say, were so terrified at the sight of the painted Indians, that they refused to cross the river, and go to the assistance of their friends. I know my father was never afraid of an Indian; he is too used to them, and so we fear he is hurt, or that worse has happened."

"Nothing worse has happened, Marianne. He is wounded, to be sure, and is at our house. It was a stiff fight, and General Brock was killed, and your General Scott, with some others, officers of high rank, have been taken prisoners."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Mrs. Reyburn. "We do not care to hear of those; what we are waiting to know is my husband's condition."

"He is wounded severely, but not dangerously. It will be some time before his wounds are healed."

"Oh, and I said I would never leave this side; I told him that." Marianne clasped her hands. "And now he is over there, and Royal--do you know anything of him?"

"It was he who obtained consent to have your father brought to our house. You will go to him?" He turned to Mrs. Reyburn.

"I? Yes, and quickly, too. Come, Marianne, we must go at once."

But Marianne still hesitated. "Can I come back again?"

"I don't know," Victor answered. "You will be better off with us."

"Did father say I was to come?"

"I did not ask him. He was in no condition to talk."

Marianne stood uncertainly, twisting her apron around her finger. She did not want to be disloyal and break her promise to her father, but she longed to be with him, and she finally decided that it would be right for her to go, and she would find a way to get back when her father should have recovered. So she said, "I will go if mother does."

"To be sure you will," her mother replied. "No one questioned your doing otherwise. We can leave Jerusha in charge of the house, and Mark will no doubt attend to the other affairs. Go, Victor, and give him proper directions. Explain the situation, and he will understand that he is accountable. I think he will do his best, and I am sure of Jerusha. We will get ready at once. Make up a bundle of your clothing, Marianne; enough to last some time, but be quick about it."